


A Time For Everything

by Imoshen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Everything Hurts, Grief, Hope, I'm really sorry guys, Loss, MCD, Multi, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imoshen/pseuds/Imoshen
Summary: A single bullet, two deaths, a family forever changed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 9
Kudos: 84





	A Time For Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [cinagray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinagray/pseuds/cinagray). Log in to view. 



> I'M SO SORRY. I hurt myself writing this. I blame cinagray for giving me all these feels that had to get out.

Later, far later, Andy will think that she should have known, and she will know that is bullshit. There is no warning – hadn’t she herself sat in Goussainville and stared at a hand that should’ve hurt after that fight on the plane and didn’t, and not even an hour later the wound in her shoulder didn’t heal but stayed and _bled_.

There is no warning.

One second, she’s standing with her family, surrounded by people she loves and so proud of the way they’re fitting together, working together, content in the knowledge that when her time comes, she can pass on her labrys and they will be _fine_. The next second, there’s a fine spray of blood over her face and Joe and Nicky are sprawled on the concrete floor, already pale with death.

A single bullet, taking out two men. It’s one of Nicky’s calling cards when he snipes, it takes a lot of skill and patience to achieve – or just dumb luck.

The last survivor of the human traffickers they’d taken out had gotten lucky, but not for long.

And then they’d waited, seconds ticking over into minutes… bleeding into what felt like eternity as they stood and stared at a growing pool of blood, at the bodies, so close together, that showed no signs of healing, of _reviving_.

Quỳnh was always the bravest of them. She crouched and touched her fingers to Nicky’s throat, to Joe’s, shook her head. When she looked up at Andy, the icy fear in her eyes chilled Andy to the bone.

“They’re not healing.”

Booker hasn’t been sober since that day. He can’t, and he’s not entirely sure why. When the horrible realization dawned – this is it, this is it, this is the end – his first emotion had been a wild, aching flash of _jealousy_. Nicky was laughing with Joe when he died, was staring at the laughing face of his beloved. Neither of them had to bear the horrible aching _emptiness_ that comes with the loss of half your soul, and Booker was so, so jealous for a blinding second. It’s that second that comes back to haunt him again and again whenever the haze of alcohol and drugs clears a little from his brain, and the guilt drives him back into another bottle, has him search another pill, another powder. They’d taken him back in, so much sooner than he’d ever dared to hope, taken him in with warmth and smiles and a promise of healing.

They’re gone. Booker grabs another bottle and screws the lid off.

He doesn’t want to think.

Quỳnh is quietly cursing herself. All those years, all those decades since she escaped the corroded iron prison, she kept her distance. At first she had to claw back her sanity inch by painful inch, rebuild an idea of the woman she once was on the fragments of what was left. Then it was anger that kept her away, that same burning fury that kept her company in her watery prison, kept her fighting for every one of those thousands of gasps of air she had between deaths. Now she regrets, bitterly. She could have had so much time with them, with her little brothers. She could have allowed them to help her heal, learned all of their adventures since she’d been taken, laughed and cried with them and walked the roads of the world at their sides.

Regret tastes like salt water for Quỳnh, and the photographs of her little brothers blur with the tears she can’t hold back.

There’s so much to do, so many little tasks to complete in the wake of a death – a permanent one, at least. Nile allows herself to drown in them, shelters the broken, grieving family she joined by chance and by destiny and throws all her focus on every little detail. They all want to make sure Joe and Nicky are buried right, buried the way they wanted to be. In a way, they’re lucky it happened so close to home.

When everything is said and done, when Joe and Nicky are curled together and wrapped in clean linen and given to the embrace of the earth, when flowers have been planted and a stone carved – nothing big, just _Joe. Nicky. Everything has its time._ – she stands for a long while in the garden of the beautiful home she’d never been to, the home she’d only heard about. They’d wanted to take her, wanted to show her their world.

This house is Nile’s now. Trust Joe and Nicky to have written a will and kept it updated. Nile stares at the gravestone and feels so, so alone. Her Dad is gone, and her Mom and Jordan might as well be for all that she will ever be able to see them again. The knowledge of Andy’s mortality had always been there, the certainty that their time together was limited. But Joe and Nicky, she’d seen them together a hundred years down the road, two hundred. She’d known they’d help her walk until she could run with them in this strange new life, and now she finds herself stumbling, alone on a road she doesn’t know.

 _Life isn't fair_ , she thinks. Then, finally, the tears come.

Nicky knows something is different as soon as he knows anything at all. He’s no stranger to death and revival, no stranger to dying in all kinds of manners. Few are pleasant in his line of work, but reviving is always, _always_ a brief moment of sheer agony. Nerve endings that were dead and then aren’t, all firing at once as a panicked body tries to get its bearings. He’s long since learned to ignore it, push through it and get up, fight on.

This time, there’s no agony. Instead, there’s fingers stroking his hair and Nicky knows immediately those aren’t Joe’s, aren’t Andy’s or Quỳnh’s or Nile’s or even Booker’s. There’s a scent surrounding him that touches incredibly old memories.

“Mama,” he whispers, feeling a little silly – a man of over 900 years, asking for his mother. But he’s so very certain that it’s not a surprise when he opens his eyes and stares into a pair that looks just like his own. His Mama smiles down at him, and Nicky had forgotten so much of her face but even upside down, he _knows_ her.

“Hello Nicolò,” she greets him, and with her voice comes the memory of his name on her lips, called out a hundred times as he grew up. “You took your time, my darling boy.”

Nicky nods, tries to sit up and look around, but his body is so heavy. Fear curls into his heart. “Mama?”

“Hush, my boy. It’s alright, just a little while longer.” Her fingers keep stroking his hair where his head is pillowed in her lap. Nicky is so tired, and the old-familiar touch is soothing. His eyes drift shut again, but he has to ask, has to know.

“Mama… Yusuf?”

“My darling boy.” His mother’s hand cradles his cheek, warm and calloused and gentle. “Do you truly think anything could part him from you?”

 _No_ , Nicolò thinks, trying to recall his last memory of Yusuf. He was laughing, bright and happy, and the sun turned his dark eyes to liquid warmth. His Mama hums and taps his nose. “All will be well, my Nicolò.”

Joe blinks himself awake slowly, feeling disoriented and dizzy. There was Nicky, laughing, and he was so beautiful with the sun in his eyes – then darkness – and then, his Mama had been there. She’s gone now, and Joe would think he’d dreamed it but her face is as clear in his memories as if he’d just ridden out to Jerusalem that day. Her hands stroking his beard, her voice telling him everything would be well. He remembered asking for Nicolò… and now there’s the familiar warm weight in his arms, and before he can start to worry, can start to panic, Nicky hums and stretches and rolls over in his arms. His eyes are just as beautiful without sunlight, and Joe kisses him just because he can.

“Do you know where we are?” the love of his life asks him eventually. They’ve sat up and looked around the dark nothingness around them, but they keep coming back for gentle, reassuring kisses. Joe shakes his head.

“Does it matter as long as we’re both here?”

Nicky’s smile is small and bright and happy. “No.”

Joe smiles back, strokes Nicky’s hair back and kisses the tip of his nose. “Ready for the next adventure, my love?”

Nicky answers that question by climbing to his feet, pulling Joe up with him. When they stand, he kisses him once more, slow and soft and just a little filthy. “Let’s go, ya rouhi.”


End file.
